out.’’
‘‘Did you lift my wallet?’’ I said.
‘‘You’re trippin’.’’
‘‘It had to be a few months ago, because that’s when the unauthorized purchases began.’’
‘‘But that’s when your purse was stolen. That woman, Cherry whatsit?’’
‘‘Good answer.’’ I let go of him. ‘‘Almost like you’d rehearsed it.’’
He hesitated, just long enough. ‘‘No.’’
I sighed and stood up off the bed. ‘‘So you figured what—I’d chalk it up to Cherry Lopez, and the card companies would eat the bills?’’
‘‘You have this totally wrong.’’
‘‘Go ahead, explain it. I’m at ninety seconds to mad, and counting down.’’
His eyes skipped around. He brought his leg in. ‘‘I made a mistake. I told her how your purse got stolen. Britt, she . . .’’ He looked pained. ‘‘She had a problem. She took things. Big-time. I don’t know why; she had plenty of money. Her dad’s rolling in bucks.’’
‘‘How did she get hold of all my information?’’
‘‘It was at my gig, the one you came to with Jesse. The Battle of the Bands.’’ He sat on the windowsill. ‘‘She got your wallet from your backpack. Took down your driver’s license, Social Security number, and the rest, and put the wallet back without you knowing.’’
‘‘And you set me up. You pointed me out to a kleptomaniac.’’
‘‘I made a bad choice. I know that. I’m sorry.’’
He had the face of an angel. And he was full of crap.
‘‘Only one problem with your story,’’ I said. ‘‘Karen Jimson wants to pump my butt full of buckshot for stealing checks from Datura. How are you going to blame that on Brittany?’’
His pained look sharpened. ‘‘I would never steal from the Jimsons.’’
‘‘Who killed her, P.J.?’’
‘‘I don’t know.’’
I held up the Avalon flyer. ‘‘Know these guys?’’
He jumped like a startled monkey.
‘‘I thought so. The one in the pimp hat turned my car into a Dumpster today.’’
Through the thin walls, we heard voices in the apartment next door. Before I could stop him he scrambled out the window. I climbed onto the bed and clambered out after him, but he was already loping down the alley, pushing his bike. By the time I dropped to the ground, he was jumping on. He started it up and gunned it out of sight.
I wasn’t about to climb back in the window wearing a skirt and boots. I walked down the alley. Passing Brittany’s apartment, I caught a look through the bedroom window. Her roommate was dabbing her eyes with a tissue, talking to a man in his fifties. He was a tree trunk, with grizzled hair and arms that hung like clubs from his shoulders. Brittany’s father. Behind him another man paced the shadows. Taller, younger. I heard them say ‘‘coroner’’ and ‘‘autopsy.’’
I walked around to the front of the building. In the car, Jesse was still talking on the phone. Lavonne must have been giving him an earful.
The door to Brittany’s apartment opened. Holding the doorknob was the younger man I’d seen through the window. ‘‘Come here.’’
Sculpt a Greek god with a delinquent’s slouch, and this would have been him. He was mid-twenties, wearing tangled hair and a Limp Bizkit T-shirt. His eyes were sea green, pale and wild, and his gaze felt familiar.
I slowed. ‘‘Can I help you?’’
‘‘Eavesdropping on private conversations isn’t cool.’’
I stopped. ‘‘I meant no offense.’’
‘‘What are you, press?’’
‘‘No.’’ Not at the moment.
I was getting a weird vibe. He was a beefy slab of handsome, and those pale green eyes could have sold teen magazines by the truckload. But the slouch gave him a Napoleonic whiff. Chip on an arrogant shoulder.
‘‘Have we met?’’ I said.
His mouth creased, seemingly with scorn. ‘‘ Rock House . I’m Shaun Kutner.’’
Yes. Rock House —the reality show. Hopefuls singing to industry big shots for a chance at a recording
‘‘Did you lift my wallet?’’ I said.
‘‘You’re trippin’.’’
‘‘It had to be a few months ago, because that’s when the unauthorized purchases began.’’
‘‘But that’s when your purse was stolen. That woman, Cherry whatsit?’’
‘‘Good answer.’’ I let go of him. ‘‘Almost like you’d rehearsed it.’’
He hesitated, just long enough. ‘‘No.’’
I sighed and stood up off the bed. ‘‘So you figured what—I’d chalk it up to Cherry Lopez, and the card companies would eat the bills?’’
‘‘You have this totally wrong.’’
‘‘Go ahead, explain it. I’m at ninety seconds to mad, and counting down.’’
His eyes skipped around. He brought his leg in. ‘‘I made a mistake. I told her how your purse got stolen. Britt, she . . .’’ He looked pained. ‘‘She had a problem. She took things. Big-time. I don’t know why; she had plenty of money. Her dad’s rolling in bucks.’’
‘‘How did she get hold of all my information?’’
‘‘It was at my gig, the one you came to with Jesse. The Battle of the Bands.’’ He sat on the windowsill. ‘‘She got your wallet from your backpack. Took down your driver’s license, Social Security number, and the rest, and put the wallet back without you knowing.’’
‘‘And you set me up. You pointed me out to a kleptomaniac.’’
‘‘I made a bad choice. I know that. I’m sorry.’’
He had the face of an angel. And he was full of crap.
‘‘Only one problem with your story,’’ I said. ‘‘Karen Jimson wants to pump my butt full of buckshot for stealing checks from Datura. How are you going to blame that on Brittany?’’
His pained look sharpened. ‘‘I would never steal from the Jimsons.’’
‘‘Who killed her, P.J.?’’
‘‘I don’t know.’’
I held up the Avalon flyer. ‘‘Know these guys?’’
He jumped like a startled monkey.
‘‘I thought so. The one in the pimp hat turned my car into a Dumpster today.’’
Through the thin walls, we heard voices in the apartment next door. Before I could stop him he scrambled out the window. I climbed onto the bed and clambered out after him, but he was already loping down the alley, pushing his bike. By the time I dropped to the ground, he was jumping on. He started it up and gunned it out of sight.
I wasn’t about to climb back in the window wearing a skirt and boots. I walked down the alley. Passing Brittany’s apartment, I caught a look through the bedroom window. Her roommate was dabbing her eyes with a tissue, talking to a man in his fifties. He was a tree trunk, with grizzled hair and arms that hung like clubs from his shoulders. Brittany’s father. Behind him another man paced the shadows. Taller, younger. I heard them say ‘‘coroner’’ and ‘‘autopsy.’’
I walked around to the front of the building. In the car, Jesse was still talking on the phone. Lavonne must have been giving him an earful.
The door to Brittany’s apartment opened. Holding the doorknob was the younger man I’d seen through the window. ‘‘Come here.’’
Sculpt a Greek god with a delinquent’s slouch, and this would have been him. He was mid-twenties, wearing tangled hair and a Limp Bizkit T-shirt. His eyes were sea green, pale and wild, and his gaze felt familiar.
I slowed. ‘‘Can I help you?’’
‘‘Eavesdropping on private conversations isn’t cool.’’
I stopped. ‘‘I meant no offense.’’
‘‘What are you, press?’’
‘‘No.’’ Not at the moment.
I was getting a weird vibe. He was a beefy slab of handsome, and those pale green eyes could have sold teen magazines by the truckload. But the slouch gave him a Napoleonic whiff. Chip on an arrogant shoulder.
‘‘Have we met?’’ I said.
His mouth creased, seemingly with scorn. ‘‘ Rock House . I’m Shaun Kutner.’’
Yes. Rock House —the reality show. Hopefuls singing to industry big shots for a chance at a recording
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